


Young Brendan Fraser was Formative

by convolutedConcussion



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Plagues of Egypt, Established Relationship, F/M, tagging is hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-06 00:48:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11589597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: “So, itisactually blood,” Jeremy says, sounding a little inappropriately excited.  Wynonna smiles when Dolls sets down a bag of freebie donut holes in front of her and tugs one of the boxes he and Waves had carried in with them that morning towards her with one finger just inside the lid.  “Which, I mean, it’s a little too soon to call, but we could be dealing with—”“The Mummy?”she gasps excitedly.“Um, wait—wait, what?” he frowns.She looks around really quickly and says, “You have seen The Mummy, right?”“I—ofcourseI’ve seen—Brendan Fraser was—” he seems to realize she’s fucking with him and his mouth twists as he clears his throat.  Shepretendsshe doesn’t notice Waves’ disapproving look.  “Something—okay, fine, something likeThe Mummy.”Her grin only grows.





	1. Blood

“Wynonna, I need to brush my teeth.”

The muffled voice breaks through her reverie and she jumps a little, the sputtering of the water rushing back to her.  As she tips her head back under the stream, she calls, “It’s not locked.”  The door creaks open, then shut, and she shakes her head a little.  “I zoned out,” she yawns.  She hears the sink start and peeks around the curtain.  “Oh, so that wasn’t just something you _had_ to say because there are, like, 45 people in the house at all hours?”

Dolls shoots her a _look_ and doesn’t stop brushing his teeth.  He’s even got one of those little timers.  _Loser_ , she thinks fondly.  “I took a shower last night after my run,” he says, muffled and awkward around his toothbrush.

“Disgusting—I hold out the offer of sex on a silver platter, and you pretend this is about getting _clean_ ,” she scoffs, letting the curtain fall back into place as she works conditioner into her hair.  His laugh is _just_ audible over all the noise.  She stands under the water—perfectly, perfectly warm—maybe a little too long, zoning out again.  Eventually, she bites the bullet and turns it off, and the pipes groan.  Water dripping in her eyes, she grabs at the wall and sighs, “Seriously, dude?  Take a towel, leave a towel.  Were you raised in the _wilderness?_ ”

She hears him spit, but then a towel is pressed into her hand.  “Sorry, _babe_ ,” he teases.

This thing is still new enough to make it a little weird—well, that, and the squirming bundle of _joy_ , that makes it a little weird—but not so weird that she won’t smirk into a quick kiss before breathing, “Don’t let it happen again.” 

He hums, leans back into her space, and she tastes terrible, terrible organic mouthwash.

“I’d like to make a formal request,” she says.

“I’m not switching to Listerine,” he replies flatly.  Sighing, she drapes her arms around his neck, aware that she’s getting his shirt wet but pleasantly unconcerned.  “You need to get ready.”

“Boring, awful, the worst idea ever,” she complains, but she lets him go and starts drying off.

Just as she’s gotten the towel wrapped around her, Waverly _shrieks_ , “What in the _shit!”_

She beats Dolls into the kitchen but only just and her heart plummets when she sees the blood splattered across the floor and Waves hunched over the sink, retching.  Without waiting to find out if this is a _Cabin Fever_ type situation, she rushes to her side—nearly busting her ass in the process because _wet feet plus bloody floor, dumbass_.  “Babygirl, what—”

“It’s _blood_ ,” she whimpers, and her face is so white against the red streaked here, there, smeared down her chin.

“Yeah, but what happened?”  She looks more sick than hurt, which does _nothing_ to calm her.

“The— _it’s_ blood,” Waverly says, twisting on the kitchen faucet.

Instead of water, it—it definitely _looks_ like blood.  “What the hell…” she mumbles, glancing at her sister before her eyes are drawn back to the gore pooling in the sink.

Her hand _barely_ moves when she hears, “Do _not_ touch it.”

She feels Waverly stare at her.  “Mouthwash,” she says, shutting off the nightmare sink and steering her out of the kitchen.  “I wasn’t gonna _touch it_ ,” she hisses as they pass Dolls. 

The fact that he doesn’t even _pretend_ to believe her stings a little.  When they get to the bathroom, she hands her a pack of makeup wipes.  She’s, like, 87% sure Dolls thinks he’s slick by shoving the _real mouthwash_ to the back of the cabinet so she has to crouch and fumble for it.  When she straightens, Waves is scrubbing at a patch just under her lower lip so hard, Wynonna’s pretty sure she’s about to rub the skin right off.

“Hey,” she says softly as she reaches for her hand, “Hey, I think you got it all.  Here, swish.”

She does, spits, winces, and grabs the bottle for another mouthful.  This time, when she spits, it’s more blue than red and she looks a little less like she’s going to puke or cry or both.  She straightens and eyes Wynonna.  Finally, she asks, “So were you planning on working in the towel, or…”

\--

“So, it _is_ actually blood,” Jeremy says, sounding a little inappropriately excited.  Wynonna smiles when Dolls sets down a bag of freebie donut holes in front of her and tugs one of the boxes he and Waves had carried in with them that morning towards her with one finger just inside the lid.  “Which, I mean, it’s a little too soon to call, but we could be dealing with—”

“ _The Mummy?_ ” she gasps excitedly.

“Um, wait—wait, what?” he frowns.

She looks around really quickly and says, “You _have_ seen _The Mummy_ , right?”

“I—of _course_ I’ve seen—Brendan Fraser was—” he seems to realize she’s fucking with him and his mouth twists as he clears his throat.  She _pretends_ she doesn’t notice Waves’ disapproving look.  “Something—okay, fine, something like _The Mummy_.”

Her grin only grows. 

“So, just in case next week we don’t see an abundance of frogs, do we have any other options?” Dolls prompts, thumping the back of her chair.

“Just your usual—witches, demons, Eldritch horrors,” Jeremy shrugs, swiping at his tablet.

“Beth Gardner,” Wynonna offers.  When everyone just kinda stares at her, she shrugs, “Weird ultra-religious shut-in?  I buy it.”

She is saved from their collective lack of belief in her _genius_ by Nicole, who swings into the door with a notebook and doesn’t really wait for an invite to start, “So, it’s, like, _all over_ Purgatory.  Bottled water is fine, but anything from a pipe is—yeah.”  She pulls a face. 

Wynonna wonders idly where _she_ was when she found out about the blood.   “And since I haven’t seen any news about the End Times being upon us, sounds like it’s _only_ all over here,” she says, “Which makes it our problem.  How do you stop a plague?  Can’t really,” she mimes shooting, “A plague.”  She pauses thoughtfully.  “Wait, why isn’t this the Order’s problem?  Can we _make_ it their problem?  What do they even _do?”_

“Actually,” Waverly says in a voice that sounds a _lot_ like she’s about to suggest something Wynonna will hate, “We may like… need to talk to them?  What if there’s a fire—they can’t put it out with blood, that seems like a health hazard.”

Well, she wasn’t wrong about hating it.  “No!  They’re the _worst!_ ” she cries, taking a vehement bite.  The fried sugary goodness doesn’t do much to cheer her up.  “Someone please remind my sister they wanted to cut our heads off.”

“That is true, Waves,” Nicole says softly with a grimace.  “Also, they’re dickpillows and they always beat us at softball.”

Waverly appears unimpressed, eyebrow cocking. 

“Why don’t _we_ ,” Dolls suggests, coaxing and looking at Doc, “Go talk to the Order?”

“No,” Wynonna sighs, “I owe Ewan a right hook.”  As if in agreement, the baby kicks—she’s not sure if she likes the feeling, but she feels vindicated.

\--

In a distant, dreamy sort of way, Wynonna remembers the lurch in her stomach, the pain, the sudden weakness—it’s not her memory, she realizes, not really.  It’s from the only other time she’d ever stepped foot on this particular plot of hallowed ground.  There’s a quiver of anxiety, still, when they pull up.  She waits for— _something_ , waits for a thrash in her belly, a tear, waits for something to feel _wrong_.  Doc’s got her door open before Dolls has even gotten out, eyes piercing and concerned, but the feeling never comes and she shrugs.  _No trunk for me this time_ , she thinks, letting him help her wiggle down out of the SUV.

She shakes her head quickly.  Still looking worried, Doc hovers close on their way up to the firehouse, and Dolls isn’t much further.

“I’m not gonna collapse, so you two can…” she waves them off, forcing herself to look less irritable.  She knows, deep down, it’s not—it’s not a _weakness_ thing, even if she sometimes _wonders_.  They don’t try to conceal that they’re worried about her, especially out in the field. 

Still, being handled with kid gloves makes her want to get into a _fight_.

Doc raises his hands up in surrender and looks pointedly away. 

“Just… don’t _actually_ punch the guy,” Dolls mutters, hand heavy on her shoulder for the briefest moment before it falls away.

“You _know_ I can’t promise that,” she hisses.

Wynonna can spot which of them are _real_ firefighters by which ones look at her with nothing more than a familiar, disinterested mistrust.  It’s earned—she’s _definitely_ vandalized this place.  Long before any of _these_ people were volunteering, but grudges are weird things.  Those who are part of the Order don’t look at her at all.  She wonders if she broke creepy, useless monastic etiquette by not accepting their _alliance_ with open arms and an offer to drop—

_Anyway_. 

“Are you taking _inventory?”_ she demands when they find Ewan, taking notes on a clipboard.  “Where are all of your ritual axes?  I only see the boring ones.”

“Purgatory Elementary had a field trip, and I am taking inventory because we are firefighters who regularly use supplies,” he responds, sounding bored.  “You’re here about the blood.”

“Well, I wasn’t here to ask you to happy hour,” she snaps.

Probably for the best, Dolls cuts in, “Is your water supply affected?”

With a look that broadcasts pretty clearly that he doesn’t think this is the wisest idea, Ewan makes a _follow me_ gesture and leads them around the truck he’d been inspecting and deeper into the station than she’d been since she was, like, six.  She has a moment where it kinda all hits her that, all this time, there’s been a secret society of demon hunters just chilling out, putting out fires and rescuing cats from trees.  That moment is followed closely by a demand to the universe that it send her an _actually helpful secret society of demon hunters_.  They follow him into—

“A locker-room?” she scowls.  “Listen, Summoning of the Abs, I haven’t been in a boy’s locker-room in eleven years and I intend to _keep_ it that way.  Nothing you can show me in there is gonna be new or impressive.”

At the same time, Dolls _and_ Ewan turn to stare at her.  Shoulders slumping, she follows, and he opens a door marked STORAGE A and—and instead of a closet, it’s, like, a whole room, sterile and empty except for a statue about as tall as she is in the middle of the floor, an angel with downcast eyes holding a basin.

“You guys have your own stoup?  That’s weird, was this just… like an original part of the building, or…” she trails off, stepping closer to peer into the basin to find—yep, that’s blood.  And from this angle, it looks like the statue is staring lovingly into it.  Gross.  “Well, this seems like bad news.  Is the blood holy now?”

\--

“What about a spell to reverse it?” Jeremy asks.

“Let’s not forgot our last encounter with your magical prowess,” Doc says, feet kicked up onto the table.  “Not that it wasn’t a rewarding _bonding experience_ , but you understand my hesitation.” 

Behind her, where he’s sitting and working away at his laptop, Dolls snorts even as Jeremy continues, “No—I mean, okay, fair, that’s true, but it _was_ pretty awesome, like I _did that—_ but transmutation?  Change the water back into water?”

“Or,” Dolls suggests, “Because spells are unpredictable and you are—no offense, you do great work—a scientist and not a wizard, you end up replacing the blood in the body of every person in the Ghost River Triangle with water and we all die horribly.”  When his face falls, he seems to regret what he’s said, “Let’s just put a pin in the transmutation until we exhaust all other options, yeah?”

Wynonna twists her swivel chair around and rocks it from side to side as she mouths _softie_ at him.  He goes back to staring at the screen, but he smirks. 

“I’m still Team Beth-Did-It until proven otherwise,” she says eventually.  “If it’s not a demon, which leading experts advise it is _not_ , probably, then what else is there?  I’d like it not to be witches again.”  She leans back and sighs, fingers drumming on her belly, “Can’t it ever just be, like, bored teenagers who accidentally stumbled on real curses while going through a phase?”

“You watch too many movies,” Dolls replies idly. 

“But what about Granbury in ’09?” Jeremy prompts. 

“Those were infatuation spells turned nasty, not biblical plagues.”

Oh, she needs to hear _that_ story.


	2. Frogs

Wynonna was having, frankly, the _most_ amazing dream that somehow involved both waffles and sex when something startles her awake and, sitting upright in the dark, she tries to figure out what it was.  Nothing can be heard but her heaving gasps, and for a moment she thinks she must have imagined it.  But then something cold touches her bare thigh and she lets out a yelp and tears away the blanket and she can see them _moving_ against the sheets in the pale dawn light and damn near jumps out of bed—no small feat—all while repeating shakily, “Dolls, Dolls, Dolls!”

He sits up, blearily fumbles around, cries out when his hand closes around one of those _things_.  If she weren’t so frantic, she would probably think the way he throws himself out of bed is _funny_. 

“Light,” he rasps, straightening, and she slides her hand blindly at the wall until she finds the switch.  She blinks in the suddenly bright room and then stares at the bed.  “Frogs,” he says.  “ _Frogs_.”

Something about that draws a laugh out of her, and it sounds hollow to her own ears even as her whole body shudders.  “Ugh, they were on my _thigh_ ,” she groans, rubbing her legs.  When he slouches off towards the door, she asks, “Where in the Sam Hill do you think you’re going?”

“I need coffee before I can deal with this,” he grumbles, rubbing his face.

She takes a long, considering look at the bed and shrugs.  _Might as well_ , she thinks.  She tries not to smile when he fills the kettle and sets it on the stove to heat before he starts on the coffee.  She _fails_ , of course, but she at least tried.  Using the slight chill in the air as an excuse, she leans into his back and, as best as she can, wraps her arms around his middle and nudges her cold nose into his neck, which elicits a grumble, but he doesn’t shrug her off.

It had been a _week_ since Purgatory’s pipes had been running clear again.  Honestly, it’s not like she hadn’t put money on frogs, but in her _bed?_   Uncalled for.  And they still have no leads.  The kettle whistles and Wynonna pulls herself away from Dolls a little morosely and sets about making her—not caffeinated, ew—tea. 

Just as she’s taking a sip, he asks, “Should we wake up your sister and Nicole?”

She’s about to answer when there’s a scream from upstairs.  She points and mutters, “Guess not.”

\--

When they leave the homestead, there are frogs piled up against the front door.  Pulling a face, Wynonna nudges them out of the way, and a few of them hop off lazily, more of them don’t give her or her boot a second thought.  All of them do a sort of awkward shuffle to avoid actually stepping on any of them.

“This is just _cruel_ ,” Waverly complains.  “It’s too _cold_ for frogs, the poor things!”

Both Wynonna and Nicole give her matching incredulous looks and, personally, Wynonna has never felt closer to another person.  Not that, like, it isn’t a totally fair sentiment—there’s ice on the porch steps and Dolls keeps a hand under her elbow to keep her steady as she tries to keep from sending any of the frogs to the big swamp in the sky, and she can see at least one of them has gotten stuck to the ice—but still, they did wake up with them _in their beds_.  Clearly, her sister is just better than she is.  Wynonna holds a grudge, even if it’s a _mite_ misdirected.

Inexplicably, there are even frogs inside the SUV _and_ the cruiser.  Cringing, Wynonna and Dolls work on clearing their seats, and she starts to feel _bad_ tossing them into the snow.  “Okay, yeah, I’m with Waves, this is cruel,” she mumbles.

“Goin’ soft on me?” he asks, fishing under the gas pedal.

“You know me,” she says, reaching under the seat, “Ever the animal lover.”

“I saw you honest-to-god _skitter_ away from Nicole’s cat,” he laughs.

Her hand closes around something soft and she tries to suppress a shudder.  “That’s not a cat,” she grunts, looking over her shoulder to make sure Nicole can’t hear.  “That’s a demon.  I’m gonna prove it one day.”

By virtue of the fact that the cruiser is smaller, Waves and Nicole beat them out.  When they leave, the roads are a _mess_ of guts and gore and Wynonna has a _really hard time_ not getting sick.

“Hey,” he says, hand smoothing through her hair.  “Close your eyes.”

“I’m blaming the baby,” she mutters, squeezing her eyes shut and hunching until her forehead touches the dash.  “I’m not this squeamish!”

\--

Inside the station, they’re on _every available surface_.  Some of the cops just let them hop around their desks, nudging them off their paperwork or keyboards, others look a little sick as they try to shoo them off.  In their conference room, Jeremy’s got them on the table—literally, he’s picking them up and putting them on the table and Wynonna scowls, “Dude, I eat there!”

Waverly comes out of Dolls’ office with an armful of squirming, croaking horror.  She also sets those on the table, ignoring her sister’s indignant _Dude!_  

“So, waking up with frogs in my pillow?  Not optimal, _but_ check this out!” Jeremy says.  He picks up one frog in each hand—they ribbit their protest but do little to get away—and giddily stands in front of them.  “They’re different sizes, but they’re _identical_.”  When neither she nor Dolls says anything about the revelation, he rolls his eyes and explains, “So, no two frogs are _ever_ 100% identical, their patterns are, you know, unique, but _all of these_ have the same markings.”

“Okay?” she asks, confused.  “And this is helpful information to have and an excuse to be collecting them where I eat because…”

“Because!  This isn’t just a _summoning_ —this species isn’t even native to the area—someone is _replicating_ these guys from one guy on, like, an exponential level!  It’s probably their pet, or… like, familiar, or whatever,” he grins a _little_ like a puppy in spite of Wynonna’s thoroughly disgusted face. 

“Which is extra sad,” Waverly cuts in, picking up the biggest one with a sympathetic look.  “Who treats their pet this way?”

“You have interesting priorities,” she replies neutrally.  All she gets is one of those small smiles.  “So, how does this help us?”

Dolls responds, “It doesn’t, yet.  Do you know what species it _is_?”

“Not—Not _yet_ , but I will,” Jeremy says.

“Can we find another home for these?” Wynonna asks, rapping her knuckles on a frog-free spot on the table.  One of them leaps to the ground with a _splat_.  Another lands on her boot and she _almost_ kicks it across the room purely out of knee-jerk instinct.

\--

Over the coming days, the frog situation only gets worse.  Outside, you can’t take a step in any direction without stepping on, tripping over, or narrowly avoiding frozen or near-frozen amphibians.  Inside, where it’s warm, they seem to always be hopping in the direction most likely to put themselves under a foot.  Too many times, fumbling in the dark and barefoot, Wynonna has stepped down with a sickening squelch and no amount of showers makes you feel clean after getting frog guts between your toes.

“I’m had it with these motherfucking frogs in this motherfucking house,” she complains.

Doc looks at her blankly, but Dolls has the good grace to laugh.  She opens the fridge in search of yogurt and sweeps a few magically-cloned-frogs off of the bottom shelf.  She’s stopped asking how they get where they get, just accepts that they’ll be literally everywhere.  The yogurt is in the back of the fridge, and it’s nearly empty, and it really doesn’t do anything but irritate her more.  As she scowls into the tub, Doc hands her a spoon.  She pours too much granola—the good kind that’s _basically_ candy with all that chocolate—directly into it.

Her frown must be especially moving because Dolls assures her, “We’ll go grocery shopping tonight.”

That doesn’t do a ton to soothe her, and she just pulls a face at Doc, who politely does not engage.  She _hates_ grocery shopping.  She stabs at a lump of yogurt and chocolatey goodness.  Dolls’ phone chimes and both of them watch him read the text.

“Pyxicephalus adspersus,” he says.

“Gesundheit,” she replies, earning an eye roll that only makes her smile.

“Pixie frogs, or African bullfrogs, which are, apparently, a reasonably popular pet,” he explains dryly.

“Cool,” she huffs.  “So, we’ve still got—”

“Nothing, yeah.”


	3. Lice

One night, all the frogs die.  It’s a little rude, Wynonna thinks, that whoever’s doing this didn’t just _poof_ them away the way they came, but she supposes it’s affective—it’s worse than having them hopping around, getting into things.  Now they’ve _gotten into things_ and goddamn died.  Outside, it’s not as bad because there’s still ice and snow on the ground and they aren’t rotting, but inside?  Everywhere they go, it _reeks_ of rot and death.  No matter how much they clean and inspect and try to make sure they found them all, they turn up—piled up behind the fridge and stove, smooshed between mattresses and bedsprings, under desks and _inside the couch_.  It may have been the most effective part of that plague—alive, they were nuisances, but dead?  Dead, they’re a hazard.  And, after spending five days finding dead, festering frog everywhere she reached, she’s starting to feel a little goddamn crazy, a little antsy, and a whole lot on edge—and the baby’s doing a tap dance against her bladder.

After double-triple-quadruple checking the couch, under the couch, inside the cushions, Wynonna allows herself to collapse into it, kicking one foot up onto the arm, the other onto the coffee table, and rubs her belly.  When that, and forcing herself to take several long, forcedly calm breaths, doesn’t work, she starts talking, because it’s all she really has left.

“Kid, c’mon, you gotta… it’s late, it’s naptime,” she says quietly.  She figures the white lie is okay, it’s not like the kid can _see_ that it’s broad daylight.  “Listen, once you’re out here, you can dance and kick and punch things—things, not me—to your heart’s content, but could you, like, not do that while you’re still hanging out in Baby’s First Apartment?”  Her face heats when she sees Dolls in the doorway, “You heard nothing.”

“I heard _everything_ ,” he laughs quickly.  “Time for our standing date with Palmer’s?” he offers, holding up a tube.  Huffing quietly, she nods and watches him fill the space between her thighs, and he leans over her to brush a quick kiss to her lips before dropping to his knees.  It’s the kinda thing she could—probably should, even—do herself, but she likes the quiet moments they can steal to themselves, and his fingers rub lotion into her skin.  She sighs, and can feel more than hear the words he whispers against her belly.  Whatever he says, it must help (it always does, she has no idea how), because the punching, kicking, thumping quiets.

“How do you _do_ that?” she demands, relieved as he keeps stroking slow circles into her stomach.

“I’m a wizard,” he whispers conspiratorially and she snorts and nudges his shoulder with her knee.

“You’re a _nerd_ ,” she counters, but she loses track of the conversation when he presses soft kisses into her belly.  She’s weighing the pros and cons of just taking a nap all spread out like this—if she _does_ , she’ll get to take a nap, but if she _doesn’t_ , she can probably convince Dolls to keep touching her, so one can appreciate what a tough decision it is for her—when a throat clears from the doorway.  “Waves!” she croons lazily.

She may have begun leaning in the direction of taking a nap.

“Hey,” Waverly says, looking at them with a mix of curiosity and embarrassment.  “Just something of interest—there’s a lice breakout at Purg’ Elementary—”

“When _isn’t_ there a lice breakout there?  It’s an elementary school,” Wynonna interrupts pointedly.

“And the hospital, and the nursing home, and, rumor has it, the fire department,” her sister continues, unamused.

“Hah, Ewan has to stock up on Rid,” she says meanly.  “Hope they have a budget for it.”

“You know this means we’ll probably _all_ get it, right?  Third plague,” Waverly points out. 

From where he’s kneeling, Dolls suddenly halts all movements and over the rise of her stomach she can see his horror-stricken face.  For the first time since they met, she can practically _hear_ him thinking about how damn easy it would be to just blow town.

“You better look at _least_ that terrified when we get to number ten,” she scolds, pushing up and scooting back as well as she can when she’s roughly the size of a small rhino.

“We’re not getting to number ten,” he says firmly.

“Right!  Because we’re gonna find whoever’s doing this and… stop them,” Waverly says with an over-spirited finger-gun.

“I am loving your verve,” Wynonna answers with a wink as Dolls pushes himself up onto the couch next to her.

\--

The _very next day_ , Wynonna wakes up itchy and annoyed and tries _so hard_ to convince herself she’s just all wigged out over the realization of their impending fate and not actually, like, infested.  It doesn’t work and she finds herself shoving Dolls awake until he asks, face mashed into the pillow, “Is the world ending?”

“Not that I’m aware.”

“Then stop trying to wake me up,” he admonishes.

“I need you to check me for bugs,” she whispers.

“’s a bad country song,” he mumbles, “Gonna go with no.”

“C’mon, please?  I’d check you for bugs if you asked, you know I would,” she complains, shaking his shoulder.  He just grumbles.  _“Xavier_.”  Frowning, she tugs the blanket wrapped around him.  “If you don’t, you know I’ll just keep whining about it until you _do_ , so why—”

_“Okay,”_ he sighs, struggling with getting untangled from the comforter before rolling out of bed and taking it with him as he goes.  “C’mon then.”  She follows him to the bathroom and lets him tilt her head to the side, part her messy hair—she watches his face in the mirror.  “No, I think it’s just all in your—shit.”

“I don’t think that’s where the lice lives,” she jokes tonelessly.

He just groans.

She gives a shudder, suddenly aware (or at least imagining she’s suddenly aware) of every creepy crawly on her scalp.  “This is the _worst_ ,” she cries, slumping.  In the mirror, she can see Dolls scratch his own scalp, realize what he’s doing, and scowl.  “I think we need to go to the store.”

\--

“Shit,” she moans.

They’ve been to two pharmacies and the only grocery store in town and _everyone_ is out of lice shampoo.  The whole aisle has been cleared out, everyone they’ve asked has given the same reply—they’ve been wiped out, and no one has any clue when they’ll have more.  Having exhausted all options, Wynonna and Dolls stand side-by-side, both of them staring at the shelves as if that’ll change anything.  Eventually, she scrubs her face and sighs.

“I had a—I was once placed with a family, kids always got lice—she used mayonnaise,” she offers with a grimace.  At his doubtful look, she continues, “I mean, it sucked, there was this whole thing with vinegar, and the mayo has to stay on overnight, which… gross, but—it worked?  And I don’t know that we have much of a choice until they restock?”

“So…” he pauses, “To the condiments aisle?”

As they walk, she snags his hand in hers, and she pretends it’s because she just wants to hold his hand—in reality, as much as she loves it, it’s mostly to keep herself from scratching.  She’s already drawn blood.  She must not have been the only one to have the mayo epiphany because there are about a half-dozen people, all looking sleep-deprived and itchy, milling around in front of the shelves.  Dolls drops her hand to dart forward and snag a couple jars and she pretends to swoon with a gentle, mocking, _my hero_ , which earns her a snort and an eyeroll.

“Vinegar?” he prompts.

“Right,” she huffs, grabbing a bottle.

It’s still so early it’s barely daylight when they get back to the homestead—with a very brief stop for donuts because she’s “starving, babe!”—but Waves and Nicole are up and in the kitchen when they walk in, both of them with one hand buried in their hair. 

“We brought mayonnaise!  Ready for a disgusting shitshow?” she cheers.

Both of them look at her like they think she’s high.  That’s fair.

If it weren’t for the fact that she’s _absolutely miserable,_ the resulting scene would actually be funny.  Wynonna sits on about a half dozen pillows on the floor in front of Dolls with Waves cross-legged between her knees, Nicole in front of her, each of them trying their best not to be disgusted.  Nicole is free the fastest by virtue of the fact that she doesn’t have a _mile_ of hair.  Bugs jump ship as Wynonna works through Waverly’s hair and she tries not to gag.

“Dolls, do you need…” Nicole starts as she returns with coffee.

“Um, hard pass,” he says seriously.  He mumbles something about _other plans_ that sounds ominous.

\--

Because Wynonna staunchly refuses to go to the station with a grocery bag full of mayonnaise on her head, Jeremy comes to them.  She’s not really sure why—he’s got no news, he can’t say _why_ this is happening or track _how_ , and they have zero leads, but… she doesn’t mind it so much.  Dolls leaves in this fog of mystery, and she and Jeremy end up watching bad Lifetime movies, passing a bowl the size of a bucket full of chips back and forth.  She, however, retains sole control of the French onion dip—she’s got her priorities.

“How come you’re not part of the Shower Cap Brigade?” she asks eventually, only a touch accusatory.

“Oh!  Um, when we got frogs, I stocked up—better safe than sorry, you know?”  He winces when she throws a chip at him.

“You couldn’t have _shared_?” she demands.  “I can never eat another chicken salad sandwich ever again, dude!”  He at least looks a little apologetic.  When the baby moves, she huffs, “Alright, I’m not _that_ upset.”

She feels him steeling himself for a moment before he asks, “So… have you thought of a name?”

“Whiskey,” she smiles.

From the kitchen, she hears Waverly shout, “You will _not!”_

“Guess that’s out,” she laughs.  In all honesty, she _had_ been thinking about that.  She just wasn’t sure yet—she hadn’t even looked at the… she doesn’t even know what she’s having.  Dolls had given her the file, had assured her that he hadn’t looked, but she’s just not ready.  She’s accepted that this is happening, they’ve started getting the room ready—she’s not in denial, she just _can’t_.  Not yet.

Somewhere halfway through the, like, third movie, Dolls comes back and—“Holy shit,” Wynonna whispers, shoving to her feet and knocking the—closed, thank God—tub of dip onto the floor.  “Holy _shit_.”

He is _completely_ hairless and it’s _weird_ and she can’t even reconcile this Dolls with _Dolls_ Dolls.  She’s never seen him so much as clean-shaven.  “Stop that,” he says, rubbing his jaw uncomfortably.

“I can’t,” she shakes her head, stepping closer.  “Did you seriously get waxed?  _Seriously?”_   Oh, she’s gonna live in this moment.  She’s gonna take pictures.  She’s gonna share this with _everyone_. 

“I am very serious about not having lice,” he responds self-consciously.  “Can you both stop looking at me like that?”

“Please let me touch your head,” she begs, pressing her hands together in front of her mouth.  The look he gives her is exasperated and a touch pained, but she tilts her chin down and pouts maybe a _little_ affectedly until he sighs, put-upon, and leans forward.  Smiling—she likes to win, and any concession is a _win_ —she brushes her fingers over his scalp, smooth with the slip-side of lotion, presses her other palm to his cheek and laughs breathlessly.  “Oh my _God_.”

“I miss my beard,” he says morosely.

She hears Nicole crack up behind her but just replies, “That’s what you get for being such a drama queen.”  She keeps touching him, cheek and jaw and chin and neck.  “God, you’re like a dolphin.  A weird, sexy dolphin.”

“Ew,” Waverly whispers.

\--

After spending the better part of the night _literally_ nitpicking, Wynonna is all kinds of relieved when she wakes up itch-free.  Dolls’ arm is wrapped around her, all pressed against her back, and she rubs his smooth arm, only slightly unnerved by the complete lack of even peach fuzz.  She could almost be lulled back to sleep by his steady breathing, but she’s too warm— _he’s_ too warm, sometimes it’s like sleeping with a furnace to her back.  Trying _really earnestly_ not to wake him, she wriggles out of his grip and ignores the tug at her, like, heart when he makes a small noise of protest.  The chill of the bedroom is almost welcome when she stands and tugs her sleep shirt down from where it’s bunched up at the top of her belly.  

In the kitchen, she takes in the collection of about fourteen fucktillion different kinds of tea in the cupboard.  Eventually, she closes her eyes and grabs and just accepts whatever she comes away with.  It’s not all bad, it’s bright and lemony and would be better as _coffee_ , but it’s fine. 

She’s still mid-mope when Nicole strolls in, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and Wynonna says, not for the first time, “I find your ability to be conscious this early disgusting.”

“I know,” she smiles.  “D’you want eggs?  I want eggs.”  As she cooks, Nicole talks about how many frogs her cat has dragged out of hidden spaces with the kind of loving detail usually reserved for proud parents and car people.  Wynonna tries not to gag.  Still, she’s kind of lost her appetite by the time she’s given a plate.

That feeling passes pretty quickly.

She’s only human and growing another human, after all.  She thinks she’s allowed.

When Dolls stumbles into the kitchen, she gives him a chipper, “Morning, Flipper!”

He looks like he regrets every choice that ever brought him here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're actually gonna start getting to some real plotty bits eventually but heyyyy I'm so itchy after writing this I think I'm dying--shoutout to lunafeather who's responsible for like. Nonna begging Dolls to let her touch his head.

**Author's Note:**

> Pbthpbthpbth, an anon suggested the Gang and the Plagues of Egypt which, it turns out, is an idea I _very much like_. Thank you so much for reading! Tags will be added as the story goes, which should tell you all how much you need to know about how far I've planned ahead.
> 
> Swing by my [Tumblr](http://johnisntevendead.tumblr.com). I'm never not thinking about this show, so I'm never not down for talking about it!


End file.
